The man had once been vomited on by a girl too young to be at the bar counter. It had ruined his third pin-stripe suit, her sparkling silver dress, and his appetite for visits to such loud establishments ever again.

Less of a one-off event, and more of a last-straw situation. He had always preferred the preeminent…ambience that came with even a decent cigar lounge, even if he preferred to use the pipe stashed in his suit pocket instead.

Yet his clients often preferred the former. His most vivid memories of those places would be that one bar encounter, yet they also hosted party lounges, dancers with legs half the length of their body, the loud kind of jazz with trumpets that would split your eardrums. It was rowdy, vibrant, and exciting.

And when the main stage would shine at its brightest, when the trumpets would blare at their loudest, the backdoor dealings were struck in the shadows.

And today was no different. The dress code had warranted the finest suit in his arsenal. Three-piece, made of breathable mohair, full canvas lining in a gleaming navy blue, topped off with white gloves and felt hat to match. He had even refitted it boxier to follow the recent trends. It was not in the hopes of impressing anyone, it was simply the level his next workplace operated at.

Networking and cocktail parties. A resort only for those who even had their socks tailored. If money had a capital, it was here. The independent city-state of Fadaak rose far above the surrounding desert, with buildings they had coined Skyscrapers.

He often found that these establishments would be a beacon of noise on a relatively peaceful night. Yet here, there was barely an audible difference between the club and the outside world. The city never slept as long as there was money to be made, so it was the right choice he had come here for that exact purpose.

The joint, if he could use his own admittedly dull, colloquial term, was a grand tower of sorts. A circular design surrounded the dance floor, bringing those who wanted to show off to the centre with lights and music, and pushing away those with shadier intentions to the upper balconies.

He could already see those with the actual money occasionally peering over the marble railings. The crowd he was amongst were the tourists, seeing as many were human. He skipped out on the fun for today and pressed on towards the spiral staircases.

“Reservation, sir?” the staff at the base of the stairs asked.

“I believe there is a table for two listed under the initials L.C? If I’m not mistaken, third-floor table sixteen.”

The staff member checked the listing on the glass lectern beside him. His features seemed relatively normal, perhaps slim compared to the average person. Well-fed in comparison to many others. The man expected no less from a staffer working the front. Impressions mattered in these businesses.

“Ah, yes, I see your reservation. Would you like someone to guide you perhaps?”

The man could barely hear the staffer's voice over the music, as it reached its ear-splitting climax. He simply declined, not wanting the hassle of whatever the staffer was offering. With a bow, he was allowed to pass.

The stairs gifted him an intriguing, elevated perspective, perhaps another factor in the club’s success. As he ascended, the dresses and suits became more exotic, the alcohol more fragrant, the lighting darker, and the sound more bearable.

The commotion downstairs became more akin to the movements of an ant colony, as the stark day turned into sombre twilight. A thin veneer of cigar smoke wafted through the air as clinking glasses and humble conversation took over his ears, soothing them into a false sense of security. The subject matter was anything but humble. Talks of large sums of money and power changing hands from one elite to another. Yet the man was an elite in his own right. He did not feel much intimidation whatsoever.

He breathed in deeply, feeling the smoke travel down his throat. The unmistakable smell had been part of his daily life, but he could still not see how breathing it in was at all healthy. Yet it did calm him. It cleared his mind.

The crowd around him flashed glances. Most were not uncouth enough to stare, yet his presence sent visible ripples. Galaxy eyes on a head far too big for its body stared at him from two rows across. Behind him, he could have sworn a green glob in a glimmering dress was examining him with unanchored, pin-prick eyes. Some were as tall as two men, with the number of arms to match, while others were wide as if they had eaten six children daily through their chubby, fleshy mandibles. One who did stare did so with wide eyes and a stretched smile that wrinkled their face. Forget uncouth, their stare felt like divine judgement.

Spirits. All of them.

His vision glided across the floor until he found a table marked with an iridescent number sixteen. Perhaps the glow was functional in some way, or perhaps purely for show. Either way, it enticed the man's attention as if it was a canine happy to see him.

Sitting down, he noticed the relatively remote position of his seat. Stuck quite close to the back wall, the nearest table to him was a good few metres away. The sound was not abhorrently loud as it was downstairs, but over the chatter and tinkering, he could barely hear his own voice at a murmur.

The table had been ordered under his name, but at the recommendation of his client. They were clearly familiar with the venue.

Speaking of his client, he had yet to find anyone who stuck out as a candidate approach him. He was a tad early, granted, yet he had expected the other party to arrive well before him. Things were usually safer that way for the client. For all they knew, he could leave at any moment he pleased.

Simply saerching garnered no results. When the entire room stood out in one way or another, no one did. If his client were human, he could discern them by perhaps a fast walking pace, searching eyes or by clothing that concealed their features. In fact, if they were human at all, that would be quite telling in this situation.

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These thoughts ran through his head quickly, meaning it did not take him very long to realise what he had been missing.

“It’s bad manners to keep a date waiting,” the man said, casually turning his head from the staircase to the opposite chair. As he had expected, a figure stared back at him. Hollowed-out eyes and a long white nose. A Beak. He had not seen one in a while.

“I apologise for my late arrival, yet I needed to be sure it was the right person. I hope you understand.”

Not many Beaks could still do that nowadays. Without a mask and clothing, Beaks of many years ago could blend into shadows, quite literally disappearing into ones that were not pitch black already, dying them several shades darker.

Old Geverdians would say that a jet-black shadow in the morning would spell death that same night.

“No need to be so formal, I understand.”

“Please, drinks on me,” said his client, raising his hand as a milk-white suit began to wrap around his body, better contrasting himself with his surroundings. The waiter spotted their table and briskly walked over. A female staffer this time, again on the skinny side. The man guessed wrapping his index finger and thumb around her wrist would leave an uncomfortable gap.

“Vilqui with tonic water and a…”

“Whiskey. Rhodesian.”

“Rhodesian Whiskey.”

“Right away,” said the waitress as she left. The client turned around, his back comfortably resting on his chair. Relaxed, yet the man sensed the expression was fabricated. Nonetheless, he played along.

“I don’t mean to start with business, but recently I’ve been pulled along like a puppet in the hands of a child. Every direction all at once. Horrible really. Because of that, I even missed out on Genesis Day celebrations.”

His client calmed as he injected some precious extra seconds into the interaction. The man was not all business either, and so he played along. If anyone had all day to run around in circles, it certainly was not his client.

“I’ve attended celebrations a few times over the years. My local festivals were quite large, but I’m sure they were nothing compared to old Spirit Countries.”

“Far East sure know how to pull off a festival. Every Spirit that can walk and talk has gone on a pilgrimage around that time of year. Brilliant. Would you ever consider trying?”

“No, their anti-human laws are quite strict.”

“Mighty shame, that is. Here’s to seeing it at least once,” he said as the waitress returned with a silver platter. A bottle of tonic water paired with a tall glass filled with ice and Vilqui, and a stout glass of green Rhodesian whiskey on the rocks.

They toasted, drank, and felt the drink run through their bodies.

“Vilqui’s popular,” the man observed.

“One of the few bloody drinks that have any sort of effect on us. Tonic water is just so we can feel it go down. Alcohol was god’s apology for not giving you lot magic.”

The man chuckled dryly, unsure how to respond. They put their glasses down and smacked their lips.

“Now, I said I’d get down to business, so I shall. I’ve got a job for you. I want you to find someone.”

“Find someone? Missing person cases go to the police first if you haven’t tried that already.”

“No, not missing. I have gotten an inkling that this person may be in the city sooner or later, and I want that person found.”

“And brought to you?”

“No, just found. We only need confirmation that they’re in the city.”

Not a missing person and not a headhunt. Although the level of caution his client was taking fit the bill, the man had doubts that a lowly stalker would choose such a club as his venue of choice. If they were of such a vile nature, they wouldn’t think to ask for his services, let alone would he offer it to them in the first place.

But what intrigued him more was the slip-up in wording. ‘We’.

“Is it information you’re after? Or the person.”

“Both, really. I want to confirm that the person I’m looking for has the traits we are looking for, then I’d like to know if they are in the city.”

“Why then did you say both? That only sounds as though you’re after information.”

“You needn’t worry about that. I will contact them myself once your job is finished.”

An unpaid loan to a shady bank, perhaps. It was no secret even the most upstanding banks in the city had no issues with rolling up their sleeves when it came to repaying loans. And god knew the demand for such loans was vast.

“How much can you tell me? For what reason am I looking for this person?”

“I cannot tell you that. It is outside your task. All I need is for you to find them, and report back to me. Simple. Do we have a deal?”

The man picked up his glass, sloshing the green liquid gently around the block of ice. The green fluid filled the ice block's magically engraved images. Depictions of the desert, oases, the city. The block clinked against the glass. His cue to finally say something.

“I’ll give you a straight answer once you tell me who I’m looking for,” the man said. “I’ve got a feeling I can’t do much without at least that.”

The Beak chuckled, lifting his mask to take a swig of the drink. The fizzing of the bubbles mixed with the whispers of something magically intoxicating. Intense, distilled liquid Aether. Enough overload a small creature’s body in seconds. More a drug than alcohol.

“I don’t know if you have heard of the concept, but Aether magic isn’t all that exclusive anymore.”

“Go on.”

“And I don’t know if that’s strictly good or bad. I just know some folks want heads on pikes over it, and others only see the benefits.”

The man pulled in closer as the Beak reciprocated, his mechanical voice growing quieter as he adjusted the knob inside his mask. Their suits grew tight around their shoulders as the world seemed to cave in until it was just their small, private realm of secret dealings. Of matters greater than man or Spirit.

“I want you to find Evalyn Hardridge. I want you to know if she will be in the city a week from now.”

“Didn’t that lady you scared say they gave the hostages to the country across the mountains?” Iris asked, body lying the wrong way across her office chair. Even drawing had become tedious for the day.

“Scared? Oh, you mean interrogated.”

“Interro…Intreroga-”

“She did, but that doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” Evalyn explained, pinning another note to the vast array already stuck to the corkboard, like an assortment of taxidermied butterflies. “There are two countries on our northern border, and the countries don’t exactly start proper once you get to the coastline. The Giant’s Shadow takes up most of their land masses.”

“What’s that?”

“The desert. The Northern Chain Ridge is so tall, any rain coming in from the south is blocked off, and rainwater comes towards us instead of flowing down the other side. So, Giant’s Shadow.”

“Didn’t they mention another organisation? Like S.H.I.A?”

“Yes, but every country has one of those now. Sometimes, I wish they would calm down; it just makes my job messier.”

“Why?”

“Foreign entanglement. You’ll learn about it one day.”

Evalyn turned towards the open windows. Her hands were stained with pen ink, but for the first time that day, they were empty. Iris watched as the sunlight fell on her face, golden hour making it all the way through to the cream-coloured walls. Contrasting shadows stretched themselves across the room in a binary dance of opaque black and vivid orange. The room had been painted with a new wallpaper that would shift ever so slightly.

The kind of glow that would make you want to stay stuck in traffic just a few seconds longer if it meant being able to bask in it.

“Let’s call it a day, shall we?”

“Yeah, let’s.”